


OF ALL THE PLACES

by poochooey, spicyshimmy



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: M/M, Rimming, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-08
Updated: 2012-04-08
Packaged: 2017-11-03 06:14:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/378210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poochooey/pseuds/poochooey, https://archiveofourown.org/users/spicyshimmy/pseuds/spicyshimmy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written as a fill on the Mass Effect Kinkmeme. Anon asked for M!Shep and rimming. <i>Of all the places James Vega expects to be on a Friday night, it’s not in his Alliance-regulation cot he keeps in the shuttle bay, Cortez on break at the citadel and Shepard behind him, between his legs more like, head dipped down in there.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	OF ALL THE PLACES

Of all the places James Vega expects to be on a Friday night, it’s not in his Alliance-regulation cot he keeps in the shuttle bay, Cortez on break at the citadel and Shepard behind him, _between his legs_ more like, head dipped down in there.

‘Come on, James,’ he said. ‘I’ll buy you some mezcal, worm and all.’

‘Come _on_ , James,’ he said later. ‘Can’t knock it until you’ve tried it.’

He doesn’t have a _come on_ ready now, but he’s breathing real loud, and it all falls hot and quick in James’s asscrack.

‘Hold still,’ he says instead.

Commander Shepard has this voice people listen to. Authority usually makes James bristle and right now it's got the same effect only for different reasons, muscles contracting the way they do after a rough workout. 

And even then, he's used to that. His body knows what his body knows. 

But Commander Shepard knows exactly how stubborn everybody is. _That's_ how he has the damn krogans on his side. _The goddamn krogans_. 

It's the only thing James Vega and Garrus Vakarian can agree on. That, and saving the galaxy--and making faces at council members behind their backs.

At least, James _thinks_ Garrus is making faces. Could just be that's what Garrus's face looks like. 

So when Shepard says _Hold still_ , James has two instincts. 

One is to be a good little marine and take it. 

The other is to buck authority and get the hell outta dodge. 

He's never been too good at following rules.

' _You_ hold still,' James says, shifting around on the cot. He looks up at Shepard and Shepard already looks pissed. 'Why'm I on the bottom, anyway? Shouldn't you be down here?'

'This isn't a contest, James,' Shepard says in that demanding tone, like when he's ordering them around on the field. It _really_ makes James stiffen up. 'And besides--that wasn't the deal.'

The problem is, James can't actually remember what the deal _was_. Something about cards, something about Garrus. Something about how they got here.

He has no clue.

He doesn't know if Shepard does, either, but Shepard grips his hips and says, 'That's an _order_ , Lieutenant.'

'You did _not_ just go there, Loco,' James says, and it cuts out at the last syllable because Shepard has his balls, _literally_ , in the palm of his hand, squeezing when he leans over to kiss the small of his back. 

'I believe I _did_ go there, James,' Shepard says, which is obvious. If they have to get technical--which everybody's always doing around the Normandy--then Shepard's _there_ right now. 

He isn't going. He's already gone. 

James feels it, right at the base of his spine and shooting all the way up between his shoulders, making one of the big muscles there twitch and flex. James almost chokes on his tongue, throat closed and dry, sweat burning a line down his pulse and his breath coming too fast in his too-tight lungs. 

'Nice, James,' Shepard says. 'Real nice. Although I guess I always pegged you for somebody a little more...vocal about everything.'

'Yeah,' James manages. 'That _is_ how I do.'

He tries to remember the deal. If Shepard made it, it has to be worth _something_. But it's hiding in the back of James's mind like Shepard's hiding behind his thighs, and with all that shadow, the hum of electricity they can't escape, there's no way to shine some light on the situation. 

And there are some things James Vega just _doesn't_ want to know about. 

That's still before Shepard kisses him _right on the ass_ , right _there_. 

'The fuck,' James grunts. 'This is so--'

Shepard squeezes and he cuts it short again, pressing his face in his thin pillow instead. It almost smells like home, but even that's Alliance-regulation too. James thinks about it for a second, home, _tacos dorados_ and _horchata_ just like his abuela used to make, a cool beer and a good poker game, sometimes a warm beer and a shitty poker game--usually on Omega. 

He tells himself he'd rather be there than here, just because it's so fucking awkward, his commander's face somewhere Vega wouldn't even joke about man to man. Not at first, anyway. But when Shepard pulls away for a second to lick a hot stripe down the back of his balls and under, Vega jerks away from him, forward. 

It isn't because it hurt, Vega thinks, Shepard's fingers still on his thighs, pressing down firm into the muscle. 

' _James_ ,' Shepard says, practically gritting it out, 'how many times do I have to say your goddamn name? Will you just _relax_?'

It's because that felt good. That felt way good. 

'You got the wrong idea, Loco,' James says, some of the usual ease--the back and forth, the punch-and-dodge--coming to him, if only for a few short seconds. 'I _am_ relaxed. Never been more at ease.'

'Yeah, well,' Shepard says, 'you could've fooled me.'

James waits for it, the phrase he knows so well by now. _At ease, soldier_. He knows it's coming; he gets this feeling, not necessarily a bad one, but instinct that balls up tight as a cramp in his gut all the same. Sometimes he pushes himself too hard and it happens, muscles stiff and sore the next day, not nearly as strong as they should be.

And don't even get him started on stamina. 

Vakarian said...something about that, too. Maybe over dinner. Not over drinks. And James said... _something_ back, shit-eating grin on his face, so damn cocky--that at least _he_ could enjoy the beer while Vakarian couldn't. 

But it isn't Vakarian who's getting his ass licked by Commander Shepard tonight, now is it?

Heat flares across James's throat, over his cheeks. _At ease, soldier_ , he thinks, because for some reason, Shepard isn't saying it. 

And maybe... Maybe it'd help to hear it. 

Only Shepard isn't giving it to him. Not yet. 

James doesn't know how he feels when Shepard moans, a low, deep sound like James never thought he'd hear from _the_ Commander Shepard, stubble and forehead scar and all. 

James always _did_ wonder about Shepard's other scars. Maybe they could compare them sometime--though if Vega thinks about it, Shepard's entire body is one big scar. 

It's not too bad-looking, and the thought confuses James that much more. Shouldn't this guy be out banging hot asari chicks? Why's he _here_ , in the shuttle bay, licking _his_ ass? 

'I bet your ass is really tight, Lieutenant,' Shepard whispers, and chuckles. That's even weirder to hear, but it’s his voice saying it. 

And if James backs out now, out of whatever they agreed on, he's going to lose face. And one thing Jimmy Vega can't do is _lose_. 

He opens his mouth to say something, probably all too smug, but Shepard's tongue is trying to push past this time, the tip entering the hole, Shepard's stubble scraping the skin underneath. 

It shouldn't mean much of anything. It isn't even big. It's just Shepard's tongue, which James has seen him lick his lower lip with from time to time, usually in Purgatory, under the strobing lights, with all the music behind them and a couple of turians and asari getting into the groove. Maybe _too_ into it, but James has no idea what Shepard’s type really is. 

'I'd like to see you dance sometime,' James said back then, chuckling. 'Really go at it, Commander Shepard style.'

'No, you don't,' Shepard replied. 'You don't want to see that, James. Nobody does.'

The same tongue he uses to sweet-talk diplomats and primarchs and consuls and whoever--all those bastards James wouldn't tell the time of day if they asked, much less play so damn nice with--is the one Shepard's using on him now. James feels as dried up as that time on Tuchanka, winded like he's been running after Geth all night. 

That's probably how Shepard feels all the time, James thinks. Like he's running and running and can't catch his breath.

Except right now, nose pressed to flesh. 

James doesn't want to think about it but he can't stop thinking about it—same as everything else that's bad for him but feels _so_ good. 

'You really _are_ crazy,' James mutters, biting his own knuckles. He's used to balling them up, throwing a few punches, not choking on his own tongue. 

And James can practically hear the reply that doesn't come. _So they tell me_ , Shepard's voice dry, or-- _Little busy right now, James; maybe we can pick this conversation up later?_ Or even worse: _I should go._

Shepard doesn't say anything. It's better than James thought, and stranger at the same time. 

Not like he's ever thought about _this_. Not while he was sober, anyway.

But Shepard doesn't say anything because his mouth is just too busy, licking and probing like James didn't know was possible, all the places he would never have expected to be touched by a tongue of all things--and especially not Commander Shepard's. 

Maybe it's a rite of passage, James thinks. Or maybe it's just what the commander needs. 

Or maybe it was a bet, and James tries to be an honest man--even if he can't remember the stakes, he can pretty much guess the terms. 

Right now his muscles feel loose, like they do after a good round of sparring, and Shepard's tongue is even better, warm and wet and touching something in Vega he never knew he had. 

'Shit, Shepard,' he mumbles. 

'I knew you'd like it,' is all Shepard says, once he pulls back a second and licks the length of his ass crack, from top to bottom and bottom to top.

'The hell's _that_ supposed to mean?' James asks, or tries to. He _would_ say it out loud, with real words and everything, except Shepard's licking his ass. 

_The_ Commander Shepard is licking _James's ass_. 

He knew it was gonna be crazy. This assignment--nobody ever told him any different. And the shit he's seen, the stuff he's been a part of, the goddamn _thresher maw_ back on Tuchanka that fought a reaper and actually took the thing down--that's the stuff he can appreciate. Massacre. Fighting. Bloodshed. Tragedy. Orders. All of it _loco_. 

But this? This takes it to a different place, takes James to another level. His hands are balled up into fists, same as always, but there's nowhere to land 'em, nothing to hit. 

Each time it feels like a sucker punch, right in the gut. Shepard knows what he's doing no matter where he goes and he doesn't mind going below the belt, either. 

James curses in all the languages he knows and some he doesn't instead of saying anything useful. Shepard steadies a hand on his ass and that's when he _knows_ he's out of his league, that he won't be able to look Shepard in the eye, much less salute him, if ever admits to it. 

Sometimes, you have to learn on your feet.

And sometimes you have to learn on your knees. 

Anyway, it sounds better in his head than it would out loud. Like most things, only James doesn't let that stop him.

'Fuck,' Shepard says, and James can't tell if it's reverence or an order. 

He's into it. In fact, he's _really_ into it. He puts as much dedication into this as he does everything else, but this is something that he obviously _likes_. James knows that because when Shepard stands up he's packing in the front. He can see it even better after Shepard rolls him over and pushes his hands under James’s shirt, feeling his stomach. 

'Uh...' James says, because that's all he can come up with right now. Somehow it’s even weirder than what was happening before, with Shepard fingering his sides like he's some damn _girl_ , all gentle and stuff. 

'Don't worry. ' There's something in Shepard's voice that sounds like he's laughing at James. 'I won't kiss you, Lieutenant.'

'That wasn't part of it,' James says. His own voice is hoarse so he clears his throat a couple of times, and Shepard chuckles. 

'I was just going to make it feel better,' Shepard replies. He puts his forehead on Vega's stomach, somewhere near his belly button. When he talks his mouth brushes against something else, because James is turned over. 

It's not like he's hard--not _that_ hard. 

He's getting harder, though. Harder _fast_ , and if Shepard makes a comment like everybody else always does about stamina--

It's not like James can do anything about it. He'll probably just shiver with his skin twitching and his muscles jumping and Shepard's breath behind it all, Shepard's mouth behind it all. Like he doesn't say _Yes, councilor_ with those same damn lips, and nobody knows what else he can do with 'em, too. 

Kissing, instead of kissing up. 

James _hates_ those fucking politicians. 

Shepard's not like that, but sometimes... Sometimes James has no idea what Shepard _is_ like. Nobody else he's ever met or known or watched, you know, now and then, out of the corner of his eye, listening to Esteban's mumbo-jumbo about the ship, all the tech stuff that joins the hum of the shuttle bay--nobody's ever been like this.

And thinking that makes James tense up, not even able to let the thought in, much less somebody else. 

Like it'll ever happen. 

'C'mon, James,' Shepard says. 'It's not that bad, is it?'

He's wrong. It's the opposite. It's _that good_ and James chuckles, too dry and too obvious, almost choking on it instead. 

'Did I say something funny?' Shepard asks, still humoring him, like James is sixteen instead of the full-grown soldier that he _really_ is. It's not all about the muscle--it's not like he's not smart where it counts, either. 

He's a good soldier; Shepard even told him so.

But now James wonders if Shepard really meant it or if it was just a way to get under his skin--or maybe under his pants. It's hard to read Shepard because the picture he puts out, the picture he wants people to see and usually _gets_ people to see, is so damn strong. It's pretty much flawless, smooth like the hum of a nicely oiled machine, no hitches or cracks. James fell for it himself--but that was before he'd signed up to work with him. 

Shepard chuckles, too, right after he asks, and it's deep and old. It makes Vega shiver.

'Your stomach is just _rock hard_ ,' Shepard says, thumb running right under James's ribcage. 

'All that hard work's not for nothing.’ James breathes, or tries to breathe, while Shepard's lips actually close around the base of his cock.

Shepard's tongue moves over the top and then the bottom, getting his dick wet, the back of his tongue brushing the hairs on Vega's balls. There aren't many, either--he's a pretty smooth guy in nature. That's just how it is.

'I thought there'd be a tattoo here,' Shepard says, almost sounding disappointed, and then he sits up, starting to unbuckle his belt. 'Your turn.' 

'Huh?' James says.

Not his finest moment. Maybe even worse than the time he tried to headbutt Grunt and ended up on the floor of the shuttle bay staring up at the strip lighting with little Krogans swimming in front of his eyes. The answer to the Genophage was right there above him, all those Krogan babies he made just by nearly cracking his skull open. 

Good times--but even then his head wasn't reeling as much as it is now, staring Shepard in the face, wondering if the grin's just a trick of the shadows that surround him. Shepard licks his lips and James thinks about where his tongue's been, where his mouth's been, all the things it was saying--and all the things it was breathing on. 

' _Huh_?' James says again.

'Eloquent as always, James,' Shepard says. Over the hum of electricity there's a hum in his voice, too, but it has more music in it. He's still laughing and James knows, with anybody else, he'd bristle.

Not this time.

He's hard all the way now--obviously, with all that attention Shepard gave his dick.

'You heard me,' Shepard adds, tricking his fingers up James's stomach, so much muscle he's spent so long cultivating. 'It's your turn.'

'Yeah.' James's voice rasps on it, just one word, just two guys, just _everything in the whole galaxy_ happening right here between them. 'I heard you.' 

'But are you going to _do_ anything about it?' Shepard asks. 

'Was this in the, uh, the agreement?' James asks.

Shepard snorts. 'Should've made you sign a contract. Nobody's holding you to this bed.' 

But that's not true. Vega's cock is holding him to the bed, resting heavy and drooling against his hipbone. Shepard pulls his belt off and lets his pants drop, and before Vega can say _pendejo_ Commander Shepard's briefs are on his face, thrown by the man himself.

Vega snatches them off, then wishes he hadn't. He can _feel_ his face turning red. It's almost like catching his old man naked--but _so_ not. Vega tries to shake that image from his head.

Of all the places he expected to be tonight, it wasn't here, lounging in front of Shepard, who doesn't waste any more time before throwing a leg over Vega's waist, sitting on his chest and pushing backwards.

Shepard's ass is in his face and Vega doesn't know what to do. Shepard shifts around, getting comfortable; he's so close James can see him _squeeze_. He doesn't have so much experience with that, apparently not as much as Shepard does, but he'll be damned if he's gonna let Shepard think that.

In this way, it's not so different from the field.

'Spread your legs, Jimmy,' Shepard says.

Something shoots down James's spine when he hears it. 

He curses. He's not even sure what language it's in until Shepard chuckles, and he figures that means it was probably in Spanish. 

_Control_. It's the first lesson he was supposed to learn, the first instinct he's supposed to rely on. If a soldier doesn't have that, he's nothing more than a live-wire, ready to start a fire without even meaning to.

And that's the first lesson James _really_ learned. That you need to _mean it._

But the fire's pretty much already started, and James knows he doesn't have a handle on the situation. His Special Forces t-shirt is rolled all the way up to his armpits and his heart's just pounding away like it does after too many reps of chin-ups, except there's nothing between muscle and more muscle, and nothing between James's face and Shepard's body. 

James swallows. He manages not to gulp, but it comes pretty close. 

'Bit much for an elaborate joke, isn't it, James?' Shepard touches the top of his thigh, encouraging the order he just gave. The order James _still_ hasn't followed. 'Or are you waiting for Javik and Liara to jump out from behind your punching bag and say _surprise_?'

'I was thinking about it,' James says, breath right up against Shepard's skin. 

'That's not what you should be thinking about,' Shepard tells him. 'Come on. You're better than this. Get your head in the game, Lieutenant.'

So James spreads his legs. 

He doesn't know if he was just persuaded or ordered into it, or which instinct made him want it in the end. All he sees is Shepard's face go lower and lower, and _then_ all he can see are Shepard's shoulders. Then the licking begins again, that warm tongue all over everything that matters--everything his tongue can reach. 

Shepard's right--this is way beyond any bet, too much to be any kind of joke. Whether he believes it or not they're _here_ , and nobody's jumped out from behind anything yet. The shuttle bay's empty; not even Esteban's there.

James wouldn't know what he'd do if he was. 

Shepard's tongue swipes over his balls again and James shivers, trying to remember what it felt like on his dick. It felt _good_ , which is what really matters, and it still does, and maybe--just _maybe_ \--it's safe to return the favor.

'All right, Loco,' James says. It sounds too much like a whisper instead of a challenge being accepted, but he puts two hands on either side of Shepard's ass, spreading his cheeks and wishing he was a little more drunk. 

_Still_ drunk. Whatever.

Whatever it takes, right?

If Admiral Anderson had told him way back when on Omega when he first picked him up for this crazy job that he'd wind up here, not just flying as part of the Normandy's crew under Commander Shepard himself but with his mouth between _the_ Commander's legs, he would've called _him_ loco. Probably would've been thrown in the brig for talking that way to a superior officer, too. 

Not everybody likes the nickname thing as much as Shepard does. 

Call it luck. Call it fate. Call it crazy. But call it what it is--James has his mouth on Shepard's skin and he has to close his eyes, if only because he wouldn't be able to see what he's doing from this close anyway, not even if they _were_ open. 

That's the problem with perspective.

He doesn't want to think about the taste, but the feel of the skin in his hands is better than okay. He gives Shepard's ass a squeeze, thumbs on his thighs; he can feel the hum when Shepard moans right into him. 

He wonders how it'd feel if he could stop choking, remember to breathe, and do the same. 'Uhh,' he says, which causes the same reverb. Actually, it isn't so bad. It _almost_ sounds like he's doing it on purpose.

'Shit, yes,' Shepard says, and he rarely curses. Nothing over a small _damn_ under his breath. Nothing like that hot chick at Grissom. But now they're almost one and the same, what with the way Shepard arches his back and pushes back, back into James's face until James can feel the hairs under his nose, and his tongue's actually going inside. 

Shepard's tongue is inside him too, _again_. Shepard's hand grabs the base of Vega's dick this time, starting to stroke, his tongue stroking him in different ways.

Nobody will ever know about this, James decides. One of his hands moves around; he touches the tip of Shepard's cock and his thumb comes away wet, the head slick with precum. Shepard likes _that_ \--it's some kinky shit. 

Hey, he _was_ in a gang one time.

Shepard pulls his tongue out occasionally to mouth at James's balls after slipping into an easy, slow rhythm. He puts his lips around them and he’s so much more careful than James guessed he would be just by looking at him. He doesn't ask James to do the same for him, but James's mouth is busy anyway, his other thumb coming up to help it, stretching the area around to slip it in, with spit already enough lube for that.

Shepard hums again and backs into him, and the cot creaks.

There's sweat under James's armpits and he kind of has to piss. But there's no way he can move right now, out from under Commander Shepard, out from under his _dick_. 

It's just...right there, right out there, hot and pulsing through the big vein. James recognizes all the parts from his own body, nothing too crazy--or too alien--to understand. Everything makes sense, like they really are made with all the same pieces, out of all the same stuff, and like James can figure what Shepard likes based on what _he_ likes.

Like maybe they like the same kind of thing. 

The possibility gets him; it gets _to_ him. It digs all the way inside his belly and before he knows it, he's making noises too, noises just like Shepard, his dick hard just like Shepard's, his mouth on Shepard's skin just like Shepard's mouth is on _his_ skin.

Talk about taking the whole idol thing too far. Not everybody can _be_ Shepard and the more James gets to know him, the closer he comes to seeing him for who he really is, the more he realizes--they shouldn't even want to. That's some rough shit right there, having to be the one who takes care of everybody because they don't know the first thing about taking care of themselves. It isn't easy. Some days, James has no _idea_ how Shepard does it. 

But if he's got stuff to look forward to, stuff he likes...

James gives his ass a squeeze again, thumb slipping to that sweet spot where it meets his thigh, the little crease of flesh on the inside. Shepard likes that; James _knows_ he likes that. When Shepard squeezes his ass back it's all action, reaction and the _fucking_ thumb in James's ass, which James can't bring himself to follow up on. 

Not just yet. 

He doesn't know how Shepard's not tired--though he isn't _all_ human, so there's gotta be something extra to keep him going for that long. James knows _he_ has stamina. All that training wasn't for nothing.

The ladies like it, at least. He's heard a few compliments in his time.

But the commander is hardly a lady, and now James has the proof swinging in front of his face, especially when Shepard moves his ass up a little and his cock brushes the side of Vega's mouth. He turns away instinctively--it's just not something that happens every day--then remembers where he is, _who he's with_ , and how they're both straining his cot, their cocks straining themselves.

Shepard looks over his shoulder, then moves again, so his dick brushes Vega's mouth like a reminder.

'Come on,' he says, for the millionth time that night. 'Don't chicken out on me _now_ , soldier.' 

James's stomach's swooped at two things so far: _Jimmy_ and those weird, out of place military orders. Shepard likes _that_ , too. He probably enjoys being better than everyone else. Who wouldn't?

Or he just enjoys the chance to be _like_ everyone else. Doing the same things they do. Wanting the same things they want.

'You have to tell me, Loco,' James says. It almost sounds desperate, but his lips are brushing the skin of Shepard's dick as he speaks. 'How’d we end up here?' 

'That's a pretty deep question for a time like this, James,' Shepard says, muffled, mouth on vulnerable skin. James can feel his teeth scraping when he talks, the huff of breath that follows. ' _James_ ,' he repeats, and this time he's really chuckling. 

Shepard's laughing at his own joke. But, James figures, you put in the time, you get the opportunities. Shepard can laugh at his own jokes if he wants to, even if nobody else is laughing. Maybe James would, if he could remember how to breathe. 

Still, there's nobody else James makes those excuses for. At least, he's pretty sure about that. Not even himself, or-- _especially_ not himself. 

And there's nobody else he'd do _this_ for, either. _That_ much he _does_ know.

'When I don't know where I am or what I'm doing,' Shepard adds, 'I usually blame Garrus.'

' _Vakarian_?' James asks. 

He can't believe--on top of all the other stuff--that _that's_ the name he's saying at a time like this. It should be something else; even saying 'Commander' would be better than this. 

Somewhere, he knows that turian sonovabitch is laughing, twitching mandibles and all. James curses again, always in Spanish when he gets flustered, and Shepard licks the same thin stretch of skin from his balls right into his ass, thrusting it in there.

'Shit, shit shit,' James says.

He's gonna come, and he should say that too--only he doesn't, face hot, cursing against Shepard's thigh, close to biting it. He probably does. He's not paying attention to that and Shepard knows it, just like Shepard knows everything else. 

That's when he puts his fist over Vega's cock and gives it a nice, strong pull, nipping the skin where his tongue is thrusting, sucking on it for one quick second. And that's when James comes into his fingers, feeling it leak back onto his hips in warm droplets. 

He feels his face get even hotter, like the back of his neck isn't red and damp already. 

Shepard doesn't look like he's sweating at all. He's breathing hard when he pulls back and almost sits on Vega's face. 

'Oof, watch it,' Vega says. 

Shepard chuckles again and grinds into his face, just once. James takes his hands and grabs Shepard's cock this time--more daring, as brave as he’s supposed to be--and Shepard looks like he's in a haze when he does it, eyes glazed over, his body shivering. 

He has scars all along his back, James notices. 

They don't hurt. Scars don't hurt. You aren't supposed to feel 'em.

'You better fuck me with something, Lieutenant,' Shepard says in a low voice. 'I don't care what it is at this point.'

But that ain't right-- _isn't_ right, James thinks, with a distance and a gravity he doesn't recognize, something that gets dragged up from the bottom of his gut into his chest, into his throat, all the way to his lips. 

Shit, he can't do _just anything_ with Shepard. It's gotta be something good, something better than good. 

Something better than _nothing_ , at least. 

Aim for the stars, soldier, James thinks, only he can't shake his head and chuckle with his mouth against the curve of Shepard's ass. He can't ask what Shepard likes or what Shepard doesn't. It's something he's gotta learn while he's on the job, hitting the ground running, and trying not to say _oof_ too much. 

His finger's close enough. He swallows before he licks it, licking Shepard's thigh in the process. It isn't pretty but that doesn't mean it can't be good, although who the hell knows about that before it happens. Verdict's still out. So's the rest of the crew. 

And James--

James gets his finger all the way in there, waiting for the smackdown he just _knows_ is coming. 

But it doesn't. All he can hear is Shepard, breathing heavy, cursing once. In English, obviously, but _still_. 

'Don't tell me that's all you got,' Shepard says, and that definitely sounds like Commander Shepard. Never too much for good old Shepard. 

It isn't all James has, but that doesn't mean he knows how to give more--or how much more to give.

It's just his finger pushed to the last knuckle right now, and Shepard over him, cock still dripping and swaying as he moves. James can't see it, but he sure can feel it. 

'You know I always have more where that came from,' James replies, and it sounds like they're actually flirting. When Shepard laughs, throaty and quiet, James knows they are. 

'Don't tell me,' Shepard says. ' _Show me_.'

It's obvious what he wants--James has been called thick-headed before, a number of other things, but he's smart enough to get that. 

But it's different somehow. James doesn't know how he can say that with a second finger already joining the first, his tongue helping it along, slipping into the spaces in between. 

Shepard likes that. He makes another noise, this one more strangled than the first, and arches his back, burying his face against James thigh. 

If it was anybody else, James could hear himself saying _Yeah, you like that?_ and maybe a muffled _baby_ or something. Whatever makes it personal, for a little while.

Whatever makes it hot.

It's hot as _hell_ right now, James following the old advice of _giving_ hell whenever he can, of giving everything he's got. Tongue, fingers, lips, pushing inside while Shepard makes all this noise only James can hear--and it's working, his dick hard, so close to coming, so close to James's face. 

There's always that moment of panic right before you do something really, _really_ right, like maybe it could all go so damn wrong. The worst part of that is knowing how hard you were trying.

Six of one. Half a dozen of another. And two fingers, one tongue, Shepard's muscles tightening up, bracing himself right over James's body. 

'James,' Shepard says, only it isn't the usual warning James gets--about something _he_ should _stop_ doing, not about something _someone else_ is _about_ to do. 

_Yeah_ , James thinks. _You like that._

It isn't a question. He doesn't need perspective to see how obvious it is, spreading Shepard's thighs wide and pushing all the way, all the way in. 

Shepard comes after that, breathless, maybe even shouting. James doesn't have the time or the room to curse but he's thinking it, through his chest and his gut, down into the base of his spine. 

Shepard's come lands on James's stomach, strings of pure warmth that are nothing compared to the fire in Vega's stomach and chest. Shepard groans, but _really_ groans, a noise loud enough to echo over the shuttle bay. He's jerking himself off as he does, totally shameless. 

Just the way James likes it.

But he's never seen it the way Shepard does it, with all the strange finesse and huge presence for a guy that, James thinks, isn't even that tall. His mouth is open and his eyes are shut, and it takes a second for him to let himself go and climb off. 

James sits up after him, his pants around his ankles, his shirt over his nipples. His front is sticky and his mouth is dry, and it still tastes like Shepard's skin. 

Shepard wipes his hands on his thighs and stretches, closing his eyes and rolling his neck. James does the same, feeling his joints crack when he stretches his shoulder. The small of his back is sore--and his ass is just fucking _wet_.

'So...' he starts. 

Shepard raises his eyebrow at him.

'Do you want to talk about it?' he asks, and James almost says something until he realizes Shepard wasn't serious. _He_ doesn't want to talk about it. His eyes are still glazed, his pupils still blown.

James catches his breath and realizes he doesn't want to talk about it either. That's one more thing they've got in common, one more thing than James used to know. 

'So, uh,' he says. He's close to wiping his mouth with the back of his wrist but Shepard's still watching him and he shrugs the urge off his shoulders instead, catching Shepard's eyes. Maybe a _little_ defiant. He doesn't know how to be anything else. 

Something about the expression makes Shepard lift a brow, but it's also--almost--close to a grin. Not an expression Shepard wears too often these days, not even for the people and the aliens who know him best.

And James is the one who gave it to him.

James breathes in, _finally_ , chest swelling up with so much air, then breathes that same air out again. He doesn't get too much smaller because of it, the stuff he let in, the stuff he let go. 

'Bet you wanna go sleep it off, huh,' he says, mouth twitching at the corner.

Shepard's mouth, close to a mirror image, does the same thing. 'Sure. You keep telling yourself that, James.'

'Maybe I will,' James says, and watches him disappear down the hall, out of the Shuttle Bay, back to his quarters for the rest of the night.

He still doesn't know why it happened. He can't remember that far back. But when Garrus asks him the next morning how he's holding up with the hangover 'and everything,' James could swear he sees those mandibles twitching, whatever it is that passes for a turian grinning.


End file.
